


It's Like the Mafia... but for Justice.

by AspiratingAnxiety



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy, I dunno what to do, Multi, Other, Reader inserts, Reader inserts and headcanons, Requests, Slice of Life, Smut, Steamy, This is a collection of all my imagines, a lot of these are unrelated, batfam, batfamily, i guess?, so here these are, so many tags honestly go here, the linked ones will be labled, this looked better than throwing up another series, welp tumblr is dying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-11 22:56:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16861621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AspiratingAnxiety/pseuds/AspiratingAnxiety
Summary: These are the requests I got on tumblr for fics that involve multiple members of The Batfam. This includes Buce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, and more. My headcanons got thrown in here too, because why not? So, those are going to feature 2nd person POV reader inserts/general info I believe to be accurate about the Bat Boys, Batdad, or other related DC characters.





	1. Batfam Daemon AU (Bruce and Alfred, Headcanons)

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive the wonky formatting.  
> I am one woman with a very limited amount of patience...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *slides into your inbox* *whispers* batfam daemon au  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy is easily my favorite fantasy trilogy of all time. I am in love with this AU. It’s getting it’s own section header in Batcanon by Beth. This is not hyperbole. I am going to break down the manifestations, form settling, and also the personalities and interactions of all the daemons that I write about. This means that I am only going to be doing 2-5 characters/daemons per post. I already have 20 daemons selected and named for the batfamily and some of their more notorious villains. 
> 
> So this uh… this gonna’ be a new series here, yeah. You know? 
> 
> If you aren’t familiar with His Dark Materials or what exactly daemons are, here is a quick rundown: Daemons are the manifestation of a person’s soul. They take animal forms that easily morph in and out of different shapes while their human is a child. As people transition through puberty and settle into a more static sense of self, daemons become locked into a form that is representative of their human’s personality. Daemons are almost always of the opposite sex to their human, so men have female daemons and women, more often, have males. If you remember the movie The Golden Compass that came out a few years ago, it was a film rendition of the first book in this series. Also, expect quite a bit of headcanon about the way that daemons function in society as well as with their humans here because, whoooo, let me tell ya’, I have been obsessed with His Dark Materials since I read them at 12 years old. This is the beginning of something, y’all. Something big.

 

 

**Bruce:**  

-Bruce Wayne’s daemon is given the elegant name Audra moments after she manifests suddenly not too far from the wailing newborn. She is there before his umbilical cord is severed. There before the blood of his mother or the waxy vernix is sponged from his new, delicate skin.

-The small creature cries quietly, guised in the form of some soft, unknowable baby mammal. Writhing and desperate, she shimmies up the torso of an exhausted, emotional Martha Wayne and roots her nose against the infant, who has been draped over his mother’s upper stomach to engage the first milestones of parent/child bonding. Everyone is stunned, Thomas and Alfred more so even than Martha, whose flighty little nightingale daemon releases an overwhelming chorus of joyous birdsong from his perch on the elaborate headboard.

“Audra, Audra, Audra!” he sings. “Our baby is here too! Audra~”  

-Thomas’ daemon intervenes on behalf of Bruce, whose crying has become more insistent after being prodded by a cold nose. Darting forward, she props her front paws up on Martha’s side and snags the nosy creature by the scruff. She holds her aloft with pride, scurrying toward her partner at the headboard. By the time she moves to settle Audra against the mattress, the amalgamation of little animal has morphed into a snowy-white ermine kit, perfectly mimicking the shape of the daemon that will mother her.        

-The midwife says that she has never seen a daemon come into being so quickly, nor has she seen one so keen to bond to an entire family unit in the way that Audra does. The little beast is a clown, twisting in and out of shapes and zipping about in a frenzy of nuzzling that encompasses every human or daemon within feet of Bruce’s location.  

-After their first somewhat unpleasant interaction, Audra and Bruce are inseparable and never,  _never_  at odds with one another. Daemons develop more quickly than infants, though with less consistency. Most follow a path of maturation similar to those of large mammals, but find themselves stuck often in awkward stages of growth, waiting on their human to catch up. This was no different for Audra. Most notably, she was caught somewhere between gangly pup and adolescent of any form she took for a number of years while Bruce journeyed from 6-10 years of age.    

-Usually, it is intimacy that settles a daemon’s form. Romantic love and the first thrills of chaste physical contact still comprised of a sexual nature that marks the true end of childhood for most. 

-The night that Martha and Thomas Wayne were shot, Audra rent her body into the biggest, most frightening animal that she could find in the memories of Bruce or herself: a great bear. 

-She huddled over him, awkward in the lumbering shape and really too afraid to fend away any sort of attack. All the same, being in the powerful shape and crouching low with her big mouth full of sharp teeth on display, some  _inches_ long even as a tufty cub… it was all she could do. 

-After that terrible night, Audra never again takes the form of a bird or a bug, a bat or a buffalo. In adulthood, she is a bear. A giant, ferocious, 900-pound female Kodiak that stands at nearly 9 ½ feet tall on hind legs. 

-Let someone try to hurt Bruce, Alfred, Amelia, or anyone else that they love while she’s around. 

-Justlet them _try_.

-Things change after Bruce commits himself to becoming Batman in their early 20s. Audra isn’t exactly… uh… built for stealth. Her Bruce has heard of something, a ritual, founded in meditation that allows for a daemon and their human to gain the ability to be distant from each other without the pain or eventual death guaranteed to befall those poor unfortunates who are separated by more than a few yards. 

-They fight for the first time, Audra infuriated by the notion that Bruce would be without her. Disgusted that he would risk their bond, their very lives for this endeavor of justice before it even begins.

-Ultimately, she relents, only too aware of the desperate need that they both have to see improvement in the city that will be their legacy.

-Sadly (as far as Audra is concerned), the ritual is a success. It is painful and life-altering. She wanders the grounds for days, living as she thinks a true bear might in an effort to dull the lingering pain left by the moment of separation as well as the lonesome ache in her heart. 

-Bruce finds her in a cave below the manor, denned up as though preparing to hibernate and petulantly non-responsive. In the days that follow, he stays close to her, developing the vast network of subterranean caverns into what he excitedly dubs “The Batcave.” 

-”It can be the  _Bear_ Cave,” he says, daunted by her stony silence. “If you like…” 

-She does not answer him, as she has not answered him for all of the hours and hours that he’s spent babbling to her about his plans and the possibilities now open to the both of them. 

-A week of absolute silence passes on her part. A week of completely blocking him away from her thoughts and reactions. A week of true solitude spent mourning the loss of half herself. 

-She would have gone on mourning too, wasting away in that dark cave. On the seventh day, just past midnight, Bruce comes to her again, weeping. Weeping and clinging to the ruff of fur about her thick neck. 

He apologizes. 

He regrets. 

He did not know that they would hurt for this. He only wanted them to be better. He only wanted them to be  _stronger_. 

-She forgives him, and the connection between the two floods with the cacophony of emotion that they have been weathering alone. She sees that they are lost without one another, consumed by the dull blackness that has lingered within them since that night in the alley. 

-Bruce sees, with much relief, that their closeness is not irreparably damaged by the ritual. Though they may now be apart, their thoughts can always be shared.

-Audra recognizes that they have the type of strength that Bruce stupidly confuses for weakness. They are bold and brave. Protectors who crave the opportunity to offer tenderness to those most deserving. Beings capable of feeling so profoundly for others that they are lost among the sensation of their affection.  _Consumed_ by the responsibility to maintain and rehabilitate. 

-This is why she is a bear. To be as she is makes her ideal for both the defense and the nurturing of all those worthy. It was not the wrong shape, even if her human had to find a way to hide what her form spoke of him. 

 

**Alfred:**

\- Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth takes shit from no one. 

- _No one_. 

-Neither does Amelia, his rather prudent daemon.

-Settled into the mottled form of the Eurasian eagle-owl, Amelia’s wide amber eyes have appeared all-seeing to every mischievous child that has lived in Wayne Manor since Alfred’s arrival. They have been too, essentially. 

-Where Alfred can stoically maintain a neutral face when confronted with just about any occasion, Amelia cannot. Though warm fuzzies are easily scoffed away or buttoned into a very British sense of privacy, if Amelia senses anything akin to contempt within Alfred and/or herself, she simply cannot hide it. Skepticism, disappointment, anger, offense, and incredulous confusion all read clear from the expressive hold of her eyes and the distinctive position of her ear-tufts. 

-Amelia shares Alfred’s dry humor, often dishing out more verbal savagery even than the man himself:

> **The first time Bruce donned the batsuit:**
> 
> “You can’t keep me from pursuing justice!”
> 
> “Yes, well, the only thing being kept from seeing justice at the moment, Master Bruce, is modern fashion.”          
> 
> **Dick announcing his intention to bring yet _another_ female companion home from college:**
> 
> “I suppose she’ll be another sprightly, elfin beauty, eh Master Dick? What is this one’s name? Snap, Crackle, or Pop?” 

-She strikes in a grandmotherly tone, doting almost. All the while, her tufts are flattened and her eyes are communicating so much wry, sardonic intent that her one liners don’t even have to be pithy to sting. 

-Alfred and Amelia are both very dodgy about answering any direct questions of their past. Talks about sex, settling, and intimacy were never pursued. That does not mean, however, that there are not torrents of fascinating, scandalizing stories of adventure and ardor to be shared. 

-At 19 with a daemon who still freely slipped between shapes, Alfred was seen as an extremely anomalous late-bloomer. He was also deemed incredibly useful in undercover situations with local organized crime. 

-Because Amelia had yet to settle, Alfred was able to infiltrate multiple ground locations and mine information, sometimes simultaneously, purely on the merit that he could hide his identity into early adulthood. The people he was scouting didn’t think to cross check him. After all, he was too old for a shifting daemon, and the Brit who ratted out the last fella had a snake, a rabbit, or a cat.

-This came to an end shortly after he assisted in the toppling of a veritable empire that was running the seedy underbelly of London. Alfred had earned his first stripes as an intelligence officer and been taken under the wing of one older agent by the name of Chloe Ingram.

-In honesty, the beginning of the affair was semi-imagined on his part. An unbearable infatuation inflamed by Officer Ingram’s clear knowledge of his predicament. She was wicked though, in the most delicious sort of way. Vivacious and ornery with a veritable air of sexual authority.  Such a perilous mixture contractually obligated to  _educate_ theyoung Pennyworth’s mind on the ins and outs of covert operations…

-Alfred had all but built a coffin for his attraction to Ingram. Even at 19, he was too devoted to his budding military career to risk progress on some wholly inappropriate fling.

-Chloe must have sensed his waning interest and disliked the notion. One evening, not long before he was to turn 20, she slipped into an office chair beside him and supervised as he cataloged the tapes from another officer’s prolific round of bugged conversation. 

-Amelia often dashed between shapes in Chloe’s presence. An adolescent form of boasting expressed with jittery eagerness and pomp. She’d been in the shape of the owl for less than five minutes, preening nonchalantly, when it happened. 

-”Oh, what a pleasing form, Amelia.” Chloe reached forward, stroking the feathers of his daemon’s back with a curious insistence. Her eyes were trained on Alfred all the while. “Wise and snide. Deceptively approachable, but still a predator. How very fitting for you.”  

-He was breathless, shocked, and suddenly knock-kneed. For all the years that have passed, Alfred has never forgotten the sharpness of the tingling that welled in the base of his spine, nor the feeling of Officer Ingram, Chloe to him from that day on, putting her lips to his ear and making the breathy request that he meet her in her quarters when his task was done.

-Amelia did not find it in herself to morph into another form again.  


	2. Morning Routines (Headcanon Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the batboys and their morning schedule! How would they all deal with waking up? Thank you,lovely! 💕  
> -lovelywally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’re the lovely one! It will be an honor to fill your request, you sweet perfect angel baby @lovelywally.

Dick:

-Richard Grayson is naturally a 100% morning glory. He adapted to doing well at night through being raised in show business during his earliest years. This development was further honed during his time as Robin. All the same, his circadian rhythm has him up with the sun.

-When he was working on his own in Blüdhaven, transitioning to solo work was especially rough because of the extended hours and his lack of ability to catch naps while clocked in at the police station. A month and a half of consistent sleep deprivation in, he saved himself with ludicrously expensive black-out curtains. Now, they’re a must in every one of his apartments. 

-Dick ideally sets his alarm for an hour and a half before he’s meant to turn up somewhere. That gives him time to roll out of bed, hop in the shower, clean up his stubble, and wash away any lingering resentment or disappointments from the night before. He likes to start the day clean, both physically and mentally. 

-Meditation is a key part of his morning. He developed this aspect of his routine living in the manor with Damian. It was a nice way for them to bond that involved little speaking, as most conversation at that point inevitably became antagonistic. 

-As soon as he’s out of the shower, he moves through a collection of six or seven complicated meditative yoga posses in no particular order. The family of soldier poses are his preference, but he’s not above a child’s pose or a downward facing dog if he’s got a kink to work out of his back.

-After 15-20 minutes of meditation, he’s usually got about an hour or so left to meander through a healthy breakfast of whole grains and fruits. For protein on everyday mornings, he usually downs a muscle milk, eats some cottage cheese, or prepares some quick poached eggs. 

-When breakfast is finished, enough time has elapsed for his hair to go from wet to damp, and that’s the way he prefers it to be for optimum styling. He uses sculpting waxes rather than gels because they’re supposed to keep from drying hair out. Dick also prefers the softer, bouncier texture that he can get with sculpting wax. 

-He tried pomades out in college, but with his course dark hair it made him feel like a grease ball. He swore off the stuff.

-Boy’s pretty vain about the hair, tbh. It’s the part that takes the longest after yoga and breakfast. (Honestly hard to blame him. Baby’s got some locks that are fine as hell.)

-He dawdles around his living room with any leftover time after slipping into most of his clothing, usually scrolling through social media or taking care of dailies on his mobile games. If he’s wearing more formal attire, he hangs around in slacks and his undershirt, waiting until the last 5 minutes to shrug on a dress shirt and secure a complimentary pair of oxfords. 

-If it is a casual day or just a weekend, he’ll throw on some jeans or athletic pants and avoid a shirt all together until he tugs a t-shirt over his head on the way out of the door. 

-Speaking of weekends, he mixes the breakfast routine up quite a bit depending upon what day it is. For the most part, Dick carefully monitors his diet. He’s a bit of a health nut, and though his physical conditioning demands a massive amount of calories to sustain his muscle tone and strength, he tries to stick with healthy fats, lean proteins, and plenty of fresh fruits and veggies to reach his daily intake goal. But the weekend is different, and breakfast (oh sweet syrupy breakfast) is his favorite way to splurge. 

-Pancakes, waffles, french toast, cereals made of nothing but three kinds of sugar and neon dye. 

-Sausage, bacon, ham, fried eggs, leftover sauteed chicken breast shredded for an omelette.

-All of the unholy, unhealthy breakfast food. All of it, and all at once too, please?

-Thank you.

 

Jason:

-Mornings are rough for him. He was born to live the night life. Running on empty, he can stay conscious and competent for upwards of 50 hours without many more side effects than a ferocious appetite and some crazy hair-trigger violence. (So uh… not all that different than his normal disposition, eh?)

-His snooze button is well-used, and he needs a new alarm clock every year or so because he doesn’t just press the poor button, he slams it with the full weight of his balled fist. 

-The alarm clock is assaulted anywhere between 2-5 times before Jason admits defeat and crawls out of bed with all the cheery disposition of mutilated hell-spawn. 

-Jay is a nighttime shower sorta guy. He prefers to scrub off all of the previous night before getting into bed. He feels no need to repeat the whole process out of the goddamn gate in the morning, even if he is waking up at a time that is technically considered the afternoon to average mortals. 

-He does a quick wash up after that oh so satisfying first-thing-in-the-morning piss. 

-Cold water. Wash cloth. Boom. 

-Good enough. 

-Being clumsy and drowsy while he styles his hair works for him. He combs it out, drags some product into it, and wears it messy. 

-The electric razor he uses to keep his stubble at a sexy 5 o’clock all day long is not employed until after he has been caffeinated. One of the scars on the corner of his jaw that he considers to look more bad-ass than several of his actual battle scars was placed there by said razor biting into his flesh while he yawned and half-dozed at his sink during the process. 

-Depending heavily on whether or not there was drinking the night before, Jason drags through getting himself some coffee or mixing up some hair of the dog. He likes his coffee strong and black, but if there’s a hangover looming, he’ll pour a hearty shot of Baileys into it.

-Boy, does he get some looks from the local liquor store clerk. A big o’ boy built like a brick house in leathers with the occasional bloodied nose and a shit eating grin on his face buying a delicate bottle of Baileys Cream Liqueur at 4 o’clock in the morning turns some heads, okay? Especially around Valentine’s Day when he stocks up on the delectable strawberries and cream flavor they keep stashed away outside of February. 

-Fuck Grant, though. He’s a fifty-something dude working graveyard shift selling alcohol in a polyester-blend polo. Who the hell is he to judge Jason’s love of delicious, sweet Irish cream? 

-Breakfast doesn’t sit very well on Jason’s stomach, particularly if he’s had shitty dreams. Occasionally, if the tangles of sleep that usually linger in his mind for an hour or two after waking up miraculously dissipate soon after coffee, he’ll eat some cereal or fry up some eggs. 

-He likes them with runny yolks and lots of black pepper. Crunchy sourdough toast and an ungodly amount of butter. Maybe some cinnamon applesauce on the side or a Greek yogurt. Something zingy and tart to balance out the fatty components of the meal. 

-Fucking delicious. 👌. 

-All things considered, Jason usually gets through his morning routine in under an hour. He doesn’t stress too much about clothing, throwing something on somewhere between coffee and the episode or two of whatever meme-birthing show Tim’s spamming him about that week. 

 

Tim:

-Shockingly, Tim doesn’t have a hard time waking up. He is a dreadfully light sleeper, and resents the ever-loving crap out of every creaky board in the manor’s second story grand hall where a lot of the bedrooms are located. 

-He lives in a house full of ninjas, goddamn it. Why is Alfred the only person under the roof capable of avoiding boards 17 and 34 out of respect for the tired and excellent-of-hearing? 

-He wakes up before his alarm most times, whether aided by the stomping of a family member or not. He rarely comes to with enough time left to feel the sweet relief of glancing at his phone and seeing that he’s got over an hour to return to blissful unconsciousness. 

-These glorious occasions are celebrated, cherished events that he will keep in his heart always and recall on loop with the dulcet sounds of a Mariah Carey love song coloring the scene. 

-It’s usually more like he gets 5 or 10 minutes to stare incredulously at his lock screen, personally offended by the universe as the absolute injustice of the world overwhelms him for a handful of minutes until the plucky melody of The Great Fairy’s Fountain chimes his doom. 

-Whatever. It’s a bit dramatic, but whatever. Mornings suck, he’s tired, his body is bad at sleeping, and he has a mountain of tasks to tackle each and every day of his ludicrously busy life. 

-His sleep schedule isn’t as jacked up as everybody makes it out to be, by the way. He just pulls an all-nighter once or twice a week on average. 

-That’s not outrageous, it’s simply routine at this point. 

\- … don’t judge him.

\- Tim washes his face and dresses efficiently with very little fanfare aside from blaring some music to lighten his frame of mind. He showers right after waking up every now and then if the mood strikes him or he feels a headache coming on. 

-Alfred, perfect, perfect Alfred somehow always has breakfast and their preference of fresh tea or coffee waiting for each of them in spite of their widely different schedules. Tim eats and drinks to rectify his opinion of the universe, though he usually needs at least a coffee at home and a coffee to go before he is ready to consider the petty, complicated snarl of the cosmos as a neutral body rather than a personal foe. 

-When he’s in his own safe house or apartment, he sleeps deeply until he wakes up without an alarm and proceeds with essentially the same routine that he follows in the manor. 

-Check phone. Sigh. Introspective pause. Hygiene needs. Start Pandora station. Clothing. Coffee. Peaceful enjoyment of food stuffs and joyous caffeination. Wonder why Steph added Garfunkel to Pandora station. (Is it a joke? Is it for serious? Who can know.) 

 

Damian:

-Though willing to sacrifice sleep on certain, necessary occasions, Damian is a stickler about his health. Sleep is as crucial a component in one’s physical upkeep as food or water. 

-Because Damian is so rigid about the whole “my body, my temple” thing, far more so than Dick, he’s never too terribly cranky when morning rolls around. 

-That is to say, he isn’t crankier than usual. 

-He doesn’t use an alarm of any kind. Damian has a remarkable internal clock. One of the first things that he was trained to do was effectively curtail his circadian rhythm in order to loosely control the depth and time of his sleep sessions. 

-This guy can time his naps and morning wake-up to within ten minutes of the goal he mentally sets before sleep. 

-Honestly maybe a low key metahuman thing. 

-It’s weird, y’all. 

-Every morning at precisely 6:15 am, out of courtesy, Alfred knocks at the door to tell Damian that his breakfast is in the process of being prepared. 

-Damian has been awake since 5:30 and worked through a vigorous morning fitness routine that focuses on crunches, lunges, and chin-ups to get his blood flowing and beat any dreariness from his mind. 

-When Dick lived in the manor, he happened upon Damian meditating in the sun room while Alfred put the finishing touches into breakfast. He saw the obvious benefits of daily reflection and asked Damian if he could join him. 

-Of course, Damian saw no need to deny him. After all, they were partners at the time, and sharing silence wouldn’t exactly disrupt his process.

-Until his father resumed the mantle of Batman, Damian and Dick would meet every morning, exchange a rough estimate of the poses most beneficial to their aches and injuries, and silently work through a handful of positions until breakfast was on the table. 

-Now that Dick is back in his own apartment, Damian meditates on his own in the crisp, bright room. He enjoys the absolute quiet, and Titus is always there keeping him company. 

-It’s not lonely at all. 

-Damian prefers to focus on proteins and starches for his first meal, selecting rice or quinoa bowls with eggs, soft cheeses, and usually some chick peas or savory black beans. 

-His classes don’t start until 9, so he has plenty of time to return upstairs and shower. He goes for constrictive cold showers to cement his senses in an alert mode, and he meticulously flosses, brushes, and swishes as he waits for his hair to lose some moisture. 

-The gel, you guys. The GEL.

-This boy has a freaking collection of stupidly expensive gel. There’s even one with flecks of actual, literal gold.

-You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. 

-This is his favorite gel to use because the understated, finely ground precious metal does not appear as garish shards of glitter, but as a nearly invisible sheen that compliments his rich skin tone and the subtle, smoky undertones of warm browns that hide in his dark, dark hair.

-He maybe knows this in fewer words with less keen observation. In actuality, he probably just likes the hold of the gel and the way that it looks in the sun. 

-Damian takes a while styling his hair too (we blame Grayson). Depending on how dramatically he wants to spike the lengthy crest of his pompadour fade that morning, he can be at it for up to 20 minutes. (Full porcupine, or a slicked-back clean look with tousled bangs?) 

-Once dressed and ready, Damian uses his spare time to discuss any current casework with his father and inquire about the company. If Bruce isn’t in a verbal mood, Damian will either read a book or play with his pets until Alfred summons him to the car.


	3. Grayscale (Tim and Dick bro-bonding, Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got it! If you wouldn't mind writing some bro bonding with Dick and Tim (in and/or out of costume), I'd be happy to read it! Wow I come off very energetic when I'm just a very nervous very awkward person, lol, I think I should stop talking now because at this point I'm rambling okay I'll stop talking now! (Gah I hope I did this right)  
> -nxttime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby, I don’t think you’ve ever done anything wrong in your whole damn life, and you’re not being awkward as far as I’m concerned! I’m a chatterbug when I’m nervous too, especially via text. Without being in person to gesture or emote through a conversation, I feel the need to explain every little thing in super detail so as not to be misunderstood. 
> 
> Don’t worry about it, Boo. I gotchu’ 💋💋💋
> 
> This one turned out pretty short. I hope you don’t mind.

 

Dick realizes as he raps his sore knuckles against the heavy door that he has never been inside of Tim’s apartment. This sudden knowledge disgruntles him, and his mouth turns down in a confused, offended frown.

Of all his brothers, Tim stays in contact with him most consistently. Entirely of his own volition, at that. They text almost daily and call or video chat up to a handful of times a week. They actively schedule time to hang out, no uniforms or nettlesome undertones of competition like the biweekly Thursday evenings he spends downing scotch with Jason. Certainly not like the challenging, though extremely rewarding, social effort he puts toward peeling Damian out of the Robin costume for one-on-one brotherly bonding time. 

Why hasn’t he been to Tim’s place? 

Is it like… a failing on his part as an older brother? Is Tim hiding something in there? Has Jason been here before? Surely Damian hasn’t. Bruce? 

Unlikely.  

Oh, god. What if Tim’s feelings have been hurt for  _years_ because nobody comes to his place? And he’s just not saying anything because he’s  _Tim_ and he doesn’t want to make a fuss? Because he never wants to make a fuss. Not over himself.

Why has no one been to Tim’s apartment?! Why does Dick have no fucking clue what kind of house his little brother is living in?    

What a massive freakin’ oversight.

Maybe Dick’s been here before, but suffered enough head trauma near the visit that he can’t recall it?  

Dick supposes, in the event that head trauma had not stolen his memory, that the reason he hasn’t been invited (or invited himself) over to Tim’s is due to the fact that their face-to-face meet ups are typically prearranged to take place in the manor, somewhere around the city, or at Dick’s. 

Or Jason’s. 

Or one of the many safe houses.  

The door swings wide before he can school his features into a more cheerful expression, and Tim’s welcoming grin falters. 

“Dick?” he questions, motioning his brother inside. “You okay?” 

Dick shakes his head dismissively, scoffing and running a hand through his hair. “Ah, yeah. Sorry, bud. Something on my mind.”

Tim lingers in his entryway, head cocked to one side like a confused pup. He watches as Dick wanders into the posh, modern condo with a strange, cautious gait.

He asks, “Something bad?” 

“Not exactly,” Dick says, somewhere between proud, envious, and disgusted as he surveys the clean lines and tidy state of the open concept living area. 

The decor of Tim’s home is gray… only gray. All of the walls, furniture, and flooring. Gray.

Literally 50 shades of the damn color tint everything from the coffee table to the kitchen cabinets. For half a second, Dick is repulsed by the stony, lackluster complexion of his brother’s living space. After a moment though, the sleek lines of the space slowly come into focus as carefully articulated design elements. Clearly the style was meant to seem effortless while being a tangled web of complicated technique. Like the shading of an elegant grayscale sketch?

More and more curious geometric features appear as Dick continues to glance around. The fixtures and materials are all of ludicrously expensive natures. Marble, silver, and leather.   

Dick has not spent an exorbitant amount of time imaging the interior of Tim’s home. However, the cluttered, hectic mess of red tartan and disarticulated computer guts that continues to be Tim’s bedroom in the manor set his mental precedent. Any domestic images of Tim that Dick conjured up always involved plaid, old coffee cups, and notebooks. 

When confronted with this oddly sterile environment of ambiguous gray elements, Dick’s mental impression of Tim itches as though it craves to be entirely re-rendered. 

“You look absolutely horrified. I’m going to attribute this to extreme modern interior design not being your forte, Dickie-boy,” Tim says, sauntering past him and into the kitchen. “Not whatever it is that was squatting on your brain in the hall.”

“I was upset because I realized that I’ve never been inside of your apartment,” Dick shares, still gawping at the ever-unfolding touches of elegance and wealth that seem to materialize out of the profusion of gray around him. “And I had never thought of you owning a place that looked so… that was like this. I feel like a crappy older brother. What the hell is that?” 

The question cuts Tim off before he can dismiss Dick’s ridiculous sentiment. He’s touched, and amused. Choosing to humor his house guest instead of berate him for investing in their social bond, Tim glances at the abstract cuboidal metal cage affixed so high up on his wall that it nearly touches the ceiling. 

“Ya’ know…” he says, pushing a freshly opened glass bottle of root beer across the countertop to his older brother. “I don’t have a clue.”

Dick cuts his eyes at Tim.

“The couple I bought the place off of did all the design.” He takes a swig. “I don’t really mind it. Some of it’s sorta’ out there, but, honestly? I don’t have the time or half the inclination to go through the trouble of changing it.”

Dick is caught somewhere between wanting to laugh and suppressing the urge to slam his face into the stone counter. “Are you kidding me, Tim? You didn’t pick any of this furniture or art or these lights or… anything?”

“The TV is mine. So’s the mattress.” He takes another drink, distinctly avoiding eye contact and grinning in admission of the absurdity that is living in a home without a single personal touch. “But the bed frame’s from the previous owners.”  

“Dude,” the older brother chuckles into his soda, shaking his head. “You set me up for quality jokes about smutty books and colorblindness like this, then you pull the rug right out from under me like that?”

“Ah, sorry Dick. Jason beat you to all of the E. L. James jokes about a year ago.”

Incredulity and a twinge of honest offense swells in Dick’s chest. He nearly chokes on his pop. “Jason’s been here?”

“Yeah,” Tim responds casually, leaning against the counter and pegging Dick with a teasing, lofty look. “He comes over every month or so to be absolutely destroyed in  _Call of Duty_. Damian tags along every now and then too. If Jason’s been drinking, we need a ref.”   

Dick’s jaw is practically resting on the counter. His tone is hoarse with the overly dramatic edge of upset he stresses for affect. “Well, goddammit!” Dick delivers a swift punch to Tim’s shoulder, suddenly realizing that he is the one being excluded where this apartment is concerned. Not Tim. “Why haven’t you invited me over?”

Tim barks an awkward chuckle, rubbing his shoulder as though Dick hit him with any force at all. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I like to  _win_ PvP matches. You can’t be here if I’m going to be the best player in the house. And it’s  _my_ house. I should be the best player.” 

Dick gives him another thump on the shoulder. This one is clearly more of a pat. “You dork,” he huffs, tickled by the undue credit and oddly relieved to hear that his brothers are all socializing successfully outside of his influence. After the initial offense, of course. 

Nobody beats Tim at  _Call of Duty_. Nobody.

He could just say they thought it would be lame to have Dick actually refereeing their game  _and_ their behavior. He’s a big boy. He can handle it.


	4. Robins off Duty in a Park (All boys, Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the Robins off duty in a public park. Any type of park, any purpose. Go.  
> -msmoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, @msmoon! I am super excited to work on my first request in a long time! It went in a family fluff direction focused, mostly, on Damian’s knee-jerk irritation toward his brothers. Hope you don’t mind, please let me know what you think. 

 

Damian associates his monthly hike with Titus in the off-leash park with the sort of pleasure he typically reserves for curb stomping thugs and the fresh baklava Alfred serves as his after school snack every Wednesday. 

The relatively quiet woodland tucked into the southeastern corner of Robinson Park was sectioned into sloppy chunks of a few miles apiece. Each was fenced in and marked for a purpose that enticed different crowds into the little bit of nature protected at the center of the city. 

You had to certify your dog with a training course before you were allowed to roam the area. The formation of the dog park had hinged on the principle that the animals could behave in a mannerly fashion around other people and their pets. Titus, of course, had passed with flying colors. 

Unfortunately, the same could not be said about the idiots Damian’s father had chosen to take into his home. 

Between Dick salivating over a loud, scantily-clad jogger that laughed like a braying mule and Tim nearly crushing someone’s Papillon by tripping over it, the hike was ruined enough. Add in Jason filling his pocket with  _raw bacon_ to entice chaos by pied-piping every dog in the four mile radius and Damian was ready for blood.

“Why did any of you even come?” he demanded, narrowly avoiding being bowled over by a giant Irish Wolfhound. 

A course chuckled escaped Jason’s chest in answer as the shaggy gray beast jabbed it’s head into his belly pursuing the pork product that had led it their way. The action was one of camaraderie, not aggression, and the rough nature of the gesture brought a kindred smile to the man’s face. 

“Ah, simmer down, brat,” Jason chuffed, slipping the last slimy, fatty strip of bacon out of his pocket. He shook it in front of the big dog, who wagged happily and gave Jason’s torso another, softer, nuzzle, as if saying please. 

Damian’s stomach turned thinking about the lardy residue doubtlessly polluting the entire liner of the over-priced leather jacket by now.

Tim, for all the general lack of sense Damian usually attributed to him, had a similar look of distaste on his face. “Dude,” he said. “What even, Jay?” 

“It’s a trick I picked up way back.” Jason said that when he was talking about living around Crime Alley. “Nick something smelly,” he waved the food in front of the dog’s nose, “and the mutts will love you.” He let the Wolfhound snatch the meat and gave the dog a few firm pats on the head.

“Bacon is not a good treat for dogs. It’s too rich. It makes them sick.” 

Damian’s comments are ignored as they wait at the exit gate for Dick to get the noisy woman’s number or dodge out of the conversion. He runs a hand over Titus’ head, seeking patience and thinking of the necessarily strict dietary regiment he organized for each of his animal companions.  

Tim rubs his nose with a sleeve, the disgusted crinkle at the edge of his left nostril still in place. “I mean, that part makes sense, but why not bring like a lunch box or something? Or a Ziploc? Or the whole pack of bacon?”

“Oh, I brought the whole pack,” Jason says smugly, rubbing his greasy fingers through the dog’s hair to clean them a bit.

Tim throws his arms open, shaking his head. A universal sign of absolute confusion. He looks to Damian for answers, and the only thing that the youngest Wayne child can think to offer is a sharp shrug.

It was Jason. Why did Tim think his actions needed to make sense?

Dick just begins to head back toward them as a flustered, hefty older woman emerges from the path calling “Gracie! Gracie girl, come here!”

The Wolfhound wags and yips excitedly, and Damian cannot stand another conversation in which a dog owner confronts Jason about the sodium heavy raw pork with which he’s poisoned their animal. 

He bolts for the exit, Titus on his heel without a command. 

Next time, if Alfred tries to write the date of his hike on the household schedule in the kitchen, he’s setting the damn thing on fire. 


	5. Sleeping Over (Headcanon Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I request the sleepover head canon ?💕  
> -anonymous  
>   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course you can, baby doll! I am sorry it took me so long to get to it… 
> 
> Anyway, I am writing these headcanons as though the reader and the character are already in an established relationship. Rather than offer a play by play of what sharing a night with this character looks like, I’m instead breaking down how the topic of overnight stays developed or effects the relationship between the reader and their partner.
> 
> If you were wanting platonic interactions or some first time sleeping over imagines, please let me know! Also, I tend to write female insert characters unless otherwise directed or inclined. 
> 
> If you’d like this same prompt with a male s/o, please tell me.  
> 
> Also, I ran out of steam before getting to Damian. I may very well come back to add him to this post. For now though, it is 3:17 am, and your girl is tired. 
> 
> Now, this prompt is the letter S from @imagine-mcu‘s alphabet of headcanon prompts. Thank you, imagine-mcu. I am grateful for the access to this resource, and I hope you don’t mind that I am using it for DC materials 😂 

 

Dick: 

-Listen, you are positive that you’re not the first girlfriend whose home Richard Grayson has quietly annexed. There’s a method, okay? A foolproof strategy designed to optimize the amount of time he has with you at every opportunity. 

-As far as he’s concerned, it is the only logical way to progress in a relationship that he deems serious. His line of work is perilous, dammit. He’s a patient man, but he’s not a friggin’ saint. Tiptoeing through the awkward do-si-do of “should I stay or should I go?” every single time the two of you wind up fooling around in one or the other’s apartment is a waste of effort that could be geared toward activities that are much,  _much_ more fun.

-Even before you outright know that he’s Nightwing (you heavily suspect), Dick’s begun the invasion. First, he always wants to stay at your place. Works for you. Sleeping in your own bed is a gift, and he has a lot less to worry about in terms of hygiene maintenance.

-Why fight an agreeable tide? 

-And that’s  _just_ what he counts on for Phase 2. He wants to keep a change of clothes and some extra toiletries around your place now that it’s the go-to. 

-Some pajamas. 

-Maybe a jacket and a pair or three of socks. 

-Oh, yeah! He forgot to mention that Bruce sometimes calls him into the WE office on short notice to contract with the sub-company under his name. Could he have a sliver of your closet for a suit? He does’t want it to get wrinkled in the drawer you cleared out for his things.  

-Sure, normal enough… except that you’ve only been dating for a month n’ a half.  _Exclusively_ for a scant three weeks (Your last boyfriend lived out of a duffel bag that you kept by the shoe rack in your front room for 9 months before you even let him have the drawer).  

-Whatever. You and Dick both keep tight schedules, and it’s not as though anything is feeling rushed or overwhelming. Just the opposite: you feel like you can’t spend enough time with him! 

-You quickly make a habit of using his man-smell soap for a change of pace on occasion. Or a spritz of his cologne here and there when it’s been a busy week and you miss him, even though it’s only been 4 days since he was last there. 2 days since your lunch date. 

-Shut up.

-You haven’t quite mapped out the rest of the moves that he put into play, but before you know what’s happening, nearly all of the space in your weensy, Tupperware container of an apartment is divided equally between you and your boyfriend of less than three months. 

-All of this to say that Dick’s sleepovers don’t feel like sleepovers, they’re just Tuesdays. Or Saturdays. Or Wednesdays. Whatever the hell day he shows up, lets himself in with the spare key that you didn’t so much as hesitate to have made for him, and goes about eating all of your Frosted Flakes.

Jason:

-Sleepovers are rare for Jason toward the beginning of your relationship. Not just because he accidentally punched you in his sleep once, though that did put the kibosh on overnight visits for a while. The predominant reasoning that he cited when apologetically declining one of your invitations involved his hours being flipped completely around. Most nights, when sleepovers are meant to be happening, Jason is hard at work sussing out the details of a case or running a patrol. 

-Simply put, he felt like there was no reason for him to be skulking in and out of your place in the dead of night, disrupting your rest, just because he’s chosen to live one  _doozy_ of an unorthodox life. 

-However, this noble resolve deteriorates quickly.   

-Jason’s dedication and the singular advantage of being the only full-time vigilante in the whole batfamily also means that he’s out of the country on lengthy, long distance assignments more often than any of the others. 

-The nights Jason gets home from these missions had proven to be the best time for you to arrange overnight stays. Days, sometime  _weeks_ of being completely out of contact with one another has a way of asserting all of the comforts and satisfactions that you find in your partner’s company, both physically and emotionally. 

-He’s real weak to the line, “But baby, I’ve missed you so much!” too…

-10/10.

-It’s  _super effective!_

-Look, it’s not like you pressed when you got the impression that he didn’t want to have you over or be at your place because he needed space to work through something risky or complicated. 

-You’re not stupid or some spoiled, manipulative brat. 

-Jason’s life is hard, painful, and incomprehensibly dangerous. He’s not looking to change one damn thing about that either. His lives exactly as he wants, minus some small tweaking here and there where old ghosts are concerned. 

-You understood this from day one.

-Unfortunately, it took a much longer time for him to figure out that you didn’t give a single fuck about missed sleep or nosy neighbors assuming he was a drug-dealer and filing complaints because he buzzed in at 4 o’clock in the morning. With the way that he lived…

-No,  _because_ of the way that he lived, you wanted to capitalize on every single moment that he could bear to spend with you. 

-Some people went lifetimes never knowing a love like the one you had for Jason. Hell would be seeing a snowstorm if you were gonna’ let the idiot continue to rob you of his presence because he was afraid of inconveniencing you. 

-Once that was through his thick, self-depreciating skull, the need to orchestrate sleepovers was no longer necessary. 

-You moved in together, renovating the loft he owned in the Cauldron district to be a bit more  _Welcome Home!_ and a lot less  _Marks with Bodyguards Cost Extra_.

Tim:

-Oh, Tim. 

-Sweet, wonderful, awkward, angel-baby Tim. 

-The first time he slept over at your house, it was January. He passed clean out on your living room floor during a power-binge of  _Stranger Things_  that he had been apologetically procrastinating since the season release in October. 

-You didn’t have the heart to wake him, not even when he started to drool, snore, and  _suddenly sit bolt upright, shouting?_

-His proclamations made zero sense: something abstract about Scarecrow robbing some guy named Oswald of his prized Wyandotte laying hens.

-A cursory attempt to talk to him indicated that he was still, to your horror, fast asleep in spite of sitting perfectly straight on his own and lecturing you about the dangers of yellow scented candles. 

-You settled him back down on your nest of blankets and flipped the TV off, loosely praying that this was some kind of fluke and you wouldn’t have to worry about your boyfriend accidentally leaping off of your balcony in a state of gibbering semi-consciousness. 

-You messaged him in a panic when you woke the next morning to find him missing, terrified that he slept-walked into traffic while you caught some rest on the floor beside him. You detailed the entire scenario for him, omitting nothing to spare his pride. (The man had scared you nearly to death. His ego wasn’t exactly your top priority when he said he’d snuck out because he liked sleeping in his bed better than he liked your floor.) 

- “Sexy, right?” he replied with a winky face.

-It wasn’t, he hadn’t, and he hasn’t ever since. The explanation: ”It only happens sometimes when I’m way too tired and I’ve had  _way_ too many energy shots.” 

-Even so, that first experience proved to be surprisingly indicative of the bizarre occurrences that would befall you when Tim ended up sharing a night with you.

-First the sleep talking, then staying up all night crouched over his laptop like some kind of gremlin while you slept not three feet away, arguing about the benefits of avoiding blue light in order to actually let your brain power down, and, finally, physically wrestling you to keep you from putting his phone in your nightstand drawer so that he would just lay the F down and go to bed.

-Tim does his best to gracefully make it seem as though your bickering is all in good fun despite your very real frustration with his lack of ability to focus on spending time with you and disengaging from his crippling responsibilities to both Wayne Enterprises and the endeavors of the Batman himself.

-You’re honestly still working on it, but he does forfeit all internet capable devices after 9 pm while in your home. 

-At first, it was out of obligation and only at your explicit request. Now though, having garnered some of the soundest, most rejuvenating sleep of his life every other week or so at your place, he tosses the phone in the drawer himself as you get ready to tuck in.

-Tim doesn’t know if it’s the regular sex or the down pillow-top on your mattress, but he can fall into blissful, dreamless unconsciousness in under half an hour by your side. 

-Perhaps it’s the near ritualistic way that you insist on sharing a cup of chamomile tea before heading toward your room? Maybe the laundry detergent or the weight of your too fluffy comforter?

-Regardless, shortly after he’s eagerly relinquishing his tech in favor of a solid night’s sleep and some quality time with you, an uptick in his demeanor and proficiency appears.

-You find it endlessly endearing that he needs a measurable statistic in order to justify asking you if he can stay over every week, rather than biweekly. As though you need data to be convinced to spend more time with him. 

The lovable idiot…  


	6. Bat Boy Bed Partners (headcanon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bat Boy Headcanons Bed Partners  
> We are looking at the batboys as bed partners. Not necessary with a focus on NSFW themes, but they’re there.

**Dick:**

-Blanket. Hog.

-Say it one more time, all together now, this man is a blanket hog. After many a night waking with shivers and losing the battle to wrest a sliver of your bedspread to cover yourself (good  _God_ , what is his grip strength?), you begin to keep an old comforter at the end of the bed. When it’s time to sleep, if Dick happens to be staying over, you split the blankets in two. He can have the top sheet and the fluffy, fancy duvet. You’re fine curled up in the worn floral cotton cover that had been on your bed in girlhood. Warmth is warmth, Martha Stewart home-goods be damned.  

-The added comforter makes for awkward, bulky snuggling. You tried to maintain the post-coital sleep cuddles a handful of times, but with the burrowing nature of the sleeping Richard, spooning through the night was abandoned in favor of pressing your backs together. Most times, sex or no sex, you take a shower and emerge to find him curled under the fancy covers facing the wall. You know he’s not sleeping, but you both pretend. By the time you’ve gone for a shower, everything that needed saying was said. You creep into bed and settle in. Slowly, wordlessly, you inch together until the lengths of both your bodies are pressed tightly against one another. He even points his toes.

-Bless him.

-In the morning, fucking morning glory jostles you a few times before rolling his entire body weight over you to “squish you awake.” He chuckles and coos at your angry huffs and groans. Asshole.

-He makes you breakfast to make up for the squishing. Gross whole-grain related hot cereal breakfasts, but whatever. He didn’t hafta’ make it, and that’s what counts.

-You’re not a morning person, by nature. The inherent conflict between someone with your night owl tendencies and his cheery, perky,  _frighteningly_  sunny disposition before noon tends to cause friction. At least… you expected it to cause friction. In actuality, he’s just infectiously chipper? It’s hard to stay upset when your house smells like brown sugar and fresh fruit and he’s all smiley.

-Damn him.

 

**Jason:**

-This poor boy generates more heat than a top of the line WE radiator. We’re talking damp sheets and a bunched up comforter kicked to the foot of the bed every frickin’ night. You own pajamas. You used to sleep in pajamas. Now you’re too damn hot. Not in a fun, hot and bothered way. No. Hot in the “Jason, I swear to God, if you don’t get your heavy, sweaty arm off of me, I’m kicking you” sort of way.

-For the most part, he doesn’t really sleep. At least, you don’t think he does. He seems to nap in quick bursts, but will stay with you through the night without protest or excuse when asked.

-He sleeps so hard when he rarely slips past his usual doze to full unconsciousness that it doesn’t really matter what you say, nothing can be done. You are trapped in the crushing embrace of your sweaty boyfriend.

-At least he mostly smells good, cigarette breath aside.

-You like cuddling. Previous boyfriends had requested separate blankets or a pillow wall because, Jesus, you are a monster. What Jason does cannot be called cuddling. It’s huddling. He huddles you.

-Your back to his chest. One bicep under your neck and, somehow, that same forearm is positioned in a bar back over your chest so your cheek sits on his elbow. Is it still a headlock if done out of affection?

-You don’t know.

-The other arm gets tossed over your belly. It fastens your torsos together with a firm hold kept in place because he burrows that hand beneath your hip. When he takes deep breaths you’re sort of squeezed. It’s a happy turn of events that you aren’t claustrophobic.

-You’re not sure what happens to your legs. You’ve never managed a look down at them while being huddled. Suffice to say that they are not your own.

-When you absolutely have to extract yourself from him, a lot of squirming is involved. 100% honesty, you have elbowed him awake. You had half an hour before work and were dangerously close to pissing your scant pjs.

-Drastic times, yo.

-On the nights when he just naps, mornings are whatever. The huddling is not at DEFCON 1 levels of nuclear crisis, so you just slip out of bed with some wiggling and start getting ready for the day. Within 30-45 minutes, he drags himself out of bed and gloomily sucks down the coffee you offer to him.

-The morning of the elbowing incident he stayed in bed. You haven’t talked about it.

 

**Tim:**

-The first time you invited Tim over to stay the night, you tucked yourself in while he was hunched at the foot of your bed working on some big project for his company. When you woke up he… he was at the foot of your bed clacking away on that project. He had not moved. He had not slept.

-Like, thanks Edward. I totally invited you over so that you could watch me snore and drool on my pillow instead of fall into a similar state of vulnerable unconsciousness as a relationship building exercise.

-I’m not inviting you back.

-You do invite him back. You also impound his laptop, his tablet, and his smartphone after 11:30 and physically wrestle him into bed. He resists. Desperately.

·         “I have to finish that in the next  36 hours. I don’t have time for sleep.”

·         “But I’m working on a project for Bruce! I can’t stop until it’s finished.”

·         “I took a long nap today. I’m not sleepy.” (Spoken as he yawns.)

It almost reminds you of tucking your kid brother in when he was spoiled and four, but you don’t want your brain making those kinds of connections, and wait… what? No.

-He falls asleep in exactly 23 minutes. Yes, you timed it. If that’s creepy, you don’t care.

-Once actually bedded, Tim is a pretty ideal sleeping partner. No snoring. No copious drool. Mild mumbling here and there when repositioned. You even manage to arrange the both of you into one of those cute couples’ sleeping positions from the movies with your head all on his chest and his nose resting in your hair.

-It is comfortable for 10 minutes, then you move because your arm is asleep and your neck sort of hurts.

-When you wake up, he is gone. There is fresh coffee in your kitchen and also a note signed with the extremely professional full signature of  _Timothy Drake_. You don’t know what to make of that, and honestly, the fact that it is sitting so neatly beneath a sloppily drawn heart doodle serving as the “sincerely” only serves to further confuse you at such an early hour.

-Nights with Tim are always one of these two options: he is up doing some ungodly thing on the internet or sleeping like a rock that somehow rises gracefully before the dawn and never,  _never_  wakes you up to say goodbye.

 

 **Damian** (obviously, significantly older):

-He is surprisingly calm? You are a bundle of nerves strapped into the fourth pair of pajamas you tried on before leaving the closet, and he’s just standing there in pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt staring at you like, “What the hell took so long? Please tell me you know how to dress yourself by this age.”

-Every time it is like this. This is not the first time you have slept beside him, but you just want to tie yourself into a knot and die because, oh my GOD, why is he so  p r e t t y?  

-Your roles in this relationship are utterly reversed every time it comes down to crawling under some covers. Unfortunately, he even does awkward with more grace than you. Where he usually is painfully formal and stilted in old fashioned ways that amuse you to no end, you’re just like… a mess. A hot mess in blue striped pajamas brimming with nervous giggles and a distinct lack of eye contact.

-He insists that you sleep on the wall side. When you ask, horrified by a premonition of you crushing him in the middle of the night trying to scramble for the bathroom half-asleep, he patiently explains for the seventh time that he has made an honor-bound promise to protect you. You cannot sleep on the outer edge of the bed. If there were to be an assailant, they would have easy access to you while he was hindered by an inferior position deeper within the gully of the mattress.

-Yup. Used the exact words “gully of the mattress.”

-What were you worried about? He’s still your scrub. A pretty scrub, but an awkward scrub who cannot hold a conventional conversation in a bucket with a speech guide.

-When your strange, flighty demeanor calms into your more usual behavior, you settle in nicely. You both like sleeping on your back. He stretches one arm beneath your pillow, and you tuck neatly into his side.

-He is warm. Damian smells like soap and tea and something musky and mannish that isn’t indicative of cologne. It is a good smell, and you always sleep wonderfully when he stays over. 


	7. Moments of Action (Tim and Dick bonding as brothers, special request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request from @yellowcape: May i ask:Tim taking care of a sick Dick. No slash. Other family members may be present. No trolling of Tim please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for requesting from me! I apologize that it took me a while to get to it. My initial productivity took a dip over the last few days. Hopefully this is what you were looking for, please let me know.

With the combination of hideouts, personal penthouses, luxury holiday properties, and the occasional townhouse owned by Bruce Wayne and his immediate family, it was no wonder that they ghosted through most stays at the manor like ships passing in the night. Damian, being the youngest, was most consistently present. Tim, too, could often be found in his usual haunts around the property. 

For the others though, Barbara or the older boys, their visits were seen as a treat that required a slew of texts and phone calls to orchestrate. Preferred throw blankets washed and hung for optimum softness and availability on the back of couches. All bedding refreshed in case of an overnight stay. Favorite dinners and snacks prepared ahead of time to suit. 

Alfred and Bruce both wanted to be sure that the older kids always felt at home. After so many mistakes were made with Dick’s departure and well… Jason…. who could really blame them for going overboard with the awkward welcome wagon?

Tim certainly doesn’t. And this is why, when he strolls into the bedroom that used to be Dick’s to steal the batteries out of the remote instead of going all the way downstairs to hunt up some double A’s, he’s shocked to his core to find that Richard is there. 

No text announcement.

No breakfast for dinner. 

“Knock much?” Dick croaks, voice rusty in the dark room.

Tim jolts, dropping the controller back onto the entertainment center with a thunk. He whorls toward the satanic rendition of his brother’s voice. “What the hell?”

“Thief.”

A light flicks on. Dick leans back against the headboard looking like somebody nuked a dead frog. His eyes, usually so sharp, are dull and gray with red rims and an unfocused quality. A sheen of sweat covers him, making his dark hair cling limply to his pallid features. His face is sallow with under eye circles so dark, Tim thinks, for a moment, that Dick’s nose is broken again and he’s sporting the telltale double black eyes that accompany the injury.

Dick is not himself in more than just appearance. For the most part, he tends to take up all of the air in a room. It’s impossible not to know when he’s around. He’s loud and silly and… just Dick. Tim has never seen him slouched back on the furniture like a discarded jacket with the winded, empty look on his face that is currently present.

The whole image of it is so discombobulating that Tim lurches back from the display, his own features twisted into a disgusted grimace, only a second after the bedside lamp keenly exposes the disturbing scene.

“Jeez, man,” Dick scoffs, obviously mocking Tim’s jumpy reaction to finding him in his own room. The attempt at fostering humor costs him. He dissolves into a brutal fit of hacking that leaves him breathless and obviously in pain. “I don’t even care about the batteries. Take the whole damn remote. Just knock next time, ‘kay?”

“Dude, you look awful.”

“Thanks, Tim.”

“I mean… whoa.” Tim shivers, giving the oldest Wayne child another once over.

Dick, clearly unimpressed with Tim’s chosen form of expression, explains. “Yeah. Chemical pneumonia. Ivy was at it again, and I got a lungful.” 

“Or twelve?” Tim adds flippantly. 

Dick blinks. “Ha.” 

“Careful there, princess. Dunno’ how many chuckles you can get out before that cough comes back.” Tim holds up his hands in exaggerated concern, ginning like a cat. He’s not gloating because Dick is ill, but he is pleased to see that something he said brought emotion back into his brother’s face. 

Even if the emotion is salt.

Dick’s mirthful nature wins out over his irritation, and he returns a small, tired grin. “You’re not wrong, Timbo. I really should be careful. Bruce and Dr. Tompkins almost came to fisticuffs when he said he was going to let me leave the hospital. Like I’m not a grown man making that choice for myself.” 

“Hospital?” 

All of the levity that Tim found in the situation bursts as suddenly as a pricked balloon. Very real concern becomes evident on his face. 

Dick scrambles to brush off notions of severity. “I’m gonna’ be fine. Just need fluids, decongestants, antibiotics, and some fresh air for two weeks or so. You know,” he says with a shrug. “Gotta’ rebuild the lung tissue.”

Tim meanders around to Dick’s bedside, somewhat unsure of where to put himself. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks. 

Dick shakes his head, and Tim frowns. He shifts his weight and looks over the mess of prescription bottles and various electrolyte boosters littering both the bedspread and the nightstand. Dick’s closest water bottle is empty. Right up on him like this, Tim can tell that he seriously needs a shower too.

He makes an executive decision. Alfred is on holiday, and so Bruce is to blame for the lack of notice in regards to both Dick’s presence and his illness. In his current state, he is obviously not getting optimal care. 

Tim lives for moments of action. Muscle memory and competence overtaking the constant drone of jumbled thoughts. Thinking, though one of Tim’s strongest suits, can get him into a lot of trouble where affection/social-type things are concerned. He knows this, and so he actively buckles down on his knee-jerk desire to bow to the awkwardness in the situation. He takes a deep breath, digging up memories of his last stint as sick-nurse and steeling himself to bulldoze any resistance on Dick’s part. 

Then he just does the thing. Like a back flip or a reactive counter, Tim throws off Dick’s blankets, hustles him out of bed and to the shower, and he changes the sheets with general success.

He has a genius IQ, for God’s sake. He can figure out a fitted sheet. 

Tim autopilots through the next hour, picking up Dick’s discarded bottles of sports drink and water. He refills the mini fridge in the corner with more liquid. He microwaves some of the leftover soup in the fridge and ferries it upstairs on a breakfast tray that he didn’t realize he knew where to find in the kitchen. Tim even fumbles through administering a breathing treatment when the relief from the shower steam wears off and Dick is hacking and spitting every other breath. 

When all is said and done, soft spring sunlight is streaming in through the open curtains, a binge-worthy show is flashing across the TV, and both brothers are snoozing heavily on the fresh, messily-made bed in Dick’s room. Bruce finds them this way, a new container of egg-drop soup cradled in his elbow. 

He smiles to himself, setting the soup on the tray and gathering up any new empty containers in the area. He brushes the shaggy hair away from both of their faces, closes the windows to keep out any more chill, and reminds Netflix that they are still, in fact, watching. Bruce slips quietly out of the room with what little mess remained after Tim’s efforts. A full, swollen feeling is achy in his chest.


	8. Bat Boys Caring for Sick S/O (headcanon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some batboy headcanon~! This is my first go, so please let me know what doesn’t work! We’re looking at what four of the batboys are like when their significant others are sick. I am only sticking with Dick, Jay, Tim, and Damian because I am comfortable writing them. I don’t know enough about the others to be confident in pursuing them yet. Sorry!

**Dick:**

-He has all of the chill when it comes to sickies. You are not the first one he’s seen to, nor will you be the last.

-For the most part, he does an initial round of care that involves getting you home and in comfy pajamas. He makes sure that you are swathed in clean blankets and have an awesome crime drama to tune in and out of while you doze on the couch.

-He stocks your kitchen with fresh fruits and vegetables, plus more Emergen-C than the law allows. With super foods like that, your immune system will be left with no choice but to beef up and kick the crap outta’ whatever bug is in your system.

-All of the gross spinach/kale based smoothies.

-All. Of. Them.

-Your whining about their heinous texture and flavor affects him naught.

-Who even started this trend? Bananas and spinach do not ever need to be together. Ever.

-Thanks, kay?

-Bye.

-He loves to give you blanket kisses when you’re all pouty and feverish. It’s a silly thing, almost bordering on mean. He tries to resist, but you’re just so damn cute! He pulls a section of blanket over one of your flushed cheeks and presses flurry of “safe” kisses into the barrier between the two of you until you’re squealing with either laughter or fury.

 

**Jason:**

-This man is the biggest worry wart. He combats his anxiety upon finding out that you are ill by exerting more control than perhaps is acceptable.

-“You’re gonna’ stay at my place until you’re better.”

He doesn’t mean maybe. He means on his couch, in his bed, on his goddamn lap until your breathing isn’t all pathetic and shallow.

-“I’ll make you a chicken soup, kay, Babe? No substitutions: eat it and weep.”

It is the best chicken soup; rich and hearty with perfectly sized veggies and a broth that holds just enough spice to ease the stinging in your throat and make a dribble leak through your painful congestion. You’d be embarrassed about the mucus if you weren’t so miserable. Instead, you shovel the miracle soup into your face and wipe haphazardly at your nose when it makes itself an issue.

-You constantly have to enforce boundaries in this odd reversal of roles. For the most part in your relationship, you like seeing to your partner. You want to make sure Jason is whole, happy, and fed. You poke into his home and business to see to his wellbeing. Now, you have to swat his hand away from your drippy nostril when he tries to ninja in a wipe to your face while you’re mid-bite. You’ve gotta insist that he not walk you to the bathroom.

-Yeah. You promise. You just have to pee. No you don’t need hel-

-“What in the Sam hell did you just ask to help me with, Jason?”

-You are thrilled to return to your own home. Bless his overbearing heart, two more days of his smothering bedside manner and you would’ve stolen away in the night.

-Jason profoundly misses your presence after your recovery. He winds up burying himself in guilt because he subconciously keeps wishing you’ll get sick again soon.\

 

**Tim:**

-Um… yeah. He has no clue how to help this situation and basically assumes that he will do nothing but further exacerbate any and all symptoms. Like, what even do you do for someone who needs a- oh! The internet! That’s a thing that exists. Where there is a will, by God, there is a way.

-Sweet Tim does his best for you. He is awkward about helping you at first. Caring for a sick person is very intimate, after all. More so than kissing and touching and all of that.

-Like, you’re a mess.

-Aside from the curious fluids, graveled tone, and snoring, you’ve been reduced to something feeble and cross with greasy hair and clothes that haven’t been changed in at least two days.

-He chooses to go the naturalistic route. First lemon ginger concoctions. You are not impressed, and the results are mixed. From there, things get wonky. Root pastes caked under your nose and menthol spreads administered to your armpits. You draw the line at cotton swabs dipped in hot mint tea being shoved into your ears to ease the congestion, and ask if he’d wash your hair for you.

-Steam from hot showers helps, so yeah. That’s a yes. Purely for medicinal purposes. The eager consent has nothing to do with soaping you up in a shower.

-It is for the sake of your sinuses.

-He lays with you in bed after your shower in spite of your insisting that he ought to go home and get some rest himself. He looks like death, and you will not be responsible for passing this plague on to him. He rubs your back, emboldened by the intimacies you shared in the shower, no longer concerned with offering kooky treatments from the internet and instead giving simple comforts that actually seem to help.

-He is gone before morning, but you wake up to a cache of painfully charming get well texts that continue to ping your way until you are fully recovered.

 

 **Damian** (Older if paired with someone, obviously):

-Upon hearing the coarse tone of your voice over the phone, he demands that you recover in one of the available rooms in the manor. It is senseless for you to rely upon your parents’ inferior means. Pennyworth is an excellent caregiver, and will offer better treatment than any middle-class clinic physician in Gotham.

-You are so needy. Left and right you want your hair brushed, your back rubbed, more tea, more soup, another hug. He is happy to give to you, it is just unlike you to file one request after another. In your relationship, he finds great satisfaction in offering you affection, gifts, and the like before you even know you want for them. That you are in such a state of discontent grieves him outside of his concern for your health.

-Silly boy makes the mistake of micromanaging Alfred’s care of you. Cretin. When he is forbidden from “interfering with your rest” for the next several hours, the error of his ways becomes apparent.

-It is unusually gratifying to kiss your cheeks and forehead. He always likes to kiss you, but as things are, he cannot seem to keep his mouth off of you. Peaked and feverish, you are all pink and overly warm. He’s not sure what it says of him, but the kisses he presses into you now are marvelous.

-When Damian too falls ill, Alfred pulls you aside and requests that you exhibit more self-control with regards to your lips than young master Wayne had been capable. While his eyes are somewhat ornery, his voice and smile are kind.

-You fever is gone, but your cheeks will forever be pink in the Wayne manor after Mr. Pennyworth’s appeal.


	9. Bat Boys Approaching a Love Interest (headcanon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, what’s it like when you’ve become the romantic focus of a bat boy? Who knows. These are my attempts to paint that glorious scenario for myself and all of you wonderful scrubs.

So, what’s it like when you’ve become the romantic focus of a bat boy? Who knows. These are my attempts to paint that glorious scenario for myself and all of you wonderful scrubs.

**Dick:**

-Richard Grayson flirts with anyone. Everyone _!_ He is bold and playful by nature, and so tosses out frisky comments with the silly abandon that we all find so endearing.

-Early on, he realized that communicating genuine interest through casual flirtation was not the way to go. It took  _ages_  to convince a person to take you seriously when you, yourself, are rarely serious. And so, he sobers his behavior when the two of you are alone. He is still goofy and sweet, but he’s not all puns, winks, and posturing.

-He sits close to you. He takes every opportunity to touch you. Your hair. Your arms. Your hands. Every opportunity.

-He offers to help you with things. Usually domestic things. Do you need someone to walk you through the parking garage? Got it. He picked up enough at the market to make supper for two. You interested? Do you need someone to carry that heavy basket of laundry up the apartment stairs? He’s your man.

-Building a trusting rapport and then bluntly stating that he is very attracted to you and would like to see you is generally what’s going to happen. He’s not shy. He’s also not a noob where relation-date-ship things are concerned.

-You’re in good hands.

 

**Jason:**

-In life, Jason’s general practice has been to throw back as much sass and crazy as he can muster, one sarcastic mouthful at a time. He flirts much the same way. He goes for less crazy, more raw, vivacious sex appeal. It rarely comes through.

-Instead he bombards you with eccentric comments that dance between flattering and downright horrifying.

·         “No eyes are as beautiful as yours, Doll.”

 

·         “I guess the only choice I have left is to touch myself while thinking of those lovely joggers you’re in.”

 

·         “I love the sound of your breathing.”

 

·         “Brains on top of all that beauty?! How did I get so lucky?”

 

·         “You can stay and watch if you like.”

           “Jason, you’re washing dishes.”

          “You know you wanna’ see…” *Soaps sponge seductively*  

 

-Jason, upon deciding that he’d like to keep you around, speaks to you as though you are already in a relationship. All of the dolls, baby-s, and sweethearts he can pass your way plus winking.

-Winking left and right. You wondered if he wore contacts and if the left one was like…perpetually dry or something, but then you realized no. No, he’s just kind of an idiot, and you start winking back.

-The first time you do, he releases a startled bark of laughter, and then begs you to do it again.

-That’s basically your entire relationship. When you return even the quirkiest, most ludicrous gestures of affection, Jason acts as if you’ve put the moon in his palm.

-He wins you over by acting like a total ham until enough general affection has cultivated to take him up on one of his many offers.  

 

**Tim:**

-Upon realizing that he cares for you as more than a friend, Tim will give you all of his spare time. There’s not much, he’s a real busy guy what with the tech company and the Robin-ing, but all that he’s got is yours.

-He likes to be in your space. You’ve never seen his place because he is so massively eager to be in your house. Like, you have such good taste. You make the best out of Gotham’s cramped apartments. Your color schemes are soothing, and your house smells like expensive candles.

-He does things that are just so sweet. He brushes and braids your hair. He cleans. He picks up your cat from the vet.

-He also fails to make any real passes at you. It’s just an act of neglect on his part. The choice is already made in his mind, and he is just so caught up in his infatuation and enjoyment of your company that he doesn’t think to double-check your attraction?

-When this is shared after some questioning, you find it both endearing and somewhat concerning.

-He is very hot and cold. He flips between sending a cordial text every few days to basically living with you for a week at a time. Like, are you friends with an intimate connotation or is he your boyfriend? Isn’t a boyfriend just an awesome friend with intimate connotations?

What’s going on?

-He falls asleep on your couch, gangly legs all stretched out and laptop still balanced on his tummy.  

-You’ve got to keep him.

-You eventually ask if he’d like to be in a relationship with you. He responds from your couch, cat curled in his lap, with a concerned, “Are we not already together?”

-You shrug, and nod.

 

(Obviously much older) **Damian:**

-So formal. So stilted.

-The guy comes across as like an elitist prick who mansplains over anyone that dares to respond to a lecture prompt. It is understandable then, that you assume he stops acknowledging your existence after given opportunities to argue in class have ended.

-Boy,  _howdy_. It is a shock when he helps you out of your desk by looming over your person until you take his offered hand. When he asks you to accompany him to a charity function his father is putting on, you nod numbly, already having astral projected out of your body for the sheer abnormality of the entire situation.

-There is something very old world about dating Damian Wayne. An aspect of which may very well be that Damian does not refer to your dating as dating, but rather “courting.”

-The dates he plans are very active and usually quite competitive. There is rarely time allotted for getting to know one another, as the both of you are too goddamn busy trying to absolutely destroy each other in every given arena.

-You don’t know why you keep agreeing to meet with him. Did you enjoy losing in racket ball? No. No, you did not.

-Are you going to meet with him next week?

-Yes. Yes, you are.

-You rationalize that you are only eager for an opportunity to beat him at something and not, certainly not, to watch the incredulous grin tug at that corner of his mouth when you get a point up. 


End file.
